Cold Cold Heart
by ItchyMicchi
Summary: The driven will go to any lengths to realise their dream.


*On and on it seems to go, but you don't know what you got till it's gone*  
  
Everyone wonders how I play so well. Some think it's because of endless practice, or my ambition to beat Sendoh. Some may think I'm driven by pride, that I can't stand losing to anyone. Others theorize that it's all three. I may be a perpetually narcoleptic, anti-social, academically under- achieving boor, but I'm not deaf. I hear the talk that goes on behind my back.  
  
They say I'm unbeatable, but they don't know what made me the cold bastard that I am. What they don't know is that my soul is black and cold, shriveled up inside the muscular shell that is my body. Sometimes I wish I were dead, then I wouldn't have to endure the bleakness of another day, to see the automaton that I have become, staring back at me from the bathroom mirror. Doesn't anyone see the rot beneath the surface? I am lifeless inside, and I have only myself to blame.  
  
They say pride goes before a fall. Pride got me into this. Pride made me what I am. Or maybe you could say it unmade me. I only wanted to be the best cager there was. If only I had stopped to think. If only I had realized that beating Sendoh, or anyone else, was merely a matter of time. If only I had been more patient. If only I knew that doing what I did was something I could have done without. If only…  
  
There is an underworld, but nothing like Dante pictured. Satan, Lucifer, Mephistopheles, Old Nick, Old Scratch, or His Ungodliness, whatever his name is, he is real. And he makes deals. And, yes, I did it. I waited till it was midnight and there was a full moon in the sky. I drew the pentagram, I chanted the spell. I spilled my blood, and waited. God, I should have run away, as far and as fast as I could. Instead, I was transported to a place so cold, so awful and so dark, I almost regretted it.  
  
The Beast was seated on a throne made; it seemed, from body parts, human and inhuman. He, It, looked distorted and hazy, like a smudge on the subconscious. I should have been thankful. What little I did see was hideously malevolent; the stuff nightmares are made of. Isn't it ironic that his name means Son of the Morning?  
  
No words were spoken. He knew what I wanted; I knew he could provide it. All that was needed was a covenant, its conditions unspoken, but everyone knows what dealing with the Devil will cost you. It was no big loss to me. I've always thought that souls were over-rated anyway, and I don't show much emotion either. The meeting came and went in a blink of an eye, but the sun was peeking over the hills when I returned to the mortal realm.  
  
The change came in the form of increased stamina and greater accuracy. My skill improved tremendously. The plays I made were breathtaking. There was no stopping me. Such was the progress I made that Shohoku beat Kainan during the Winter IH. I was selected once more for the Japan Youth team. I played so well in the international meets that I was tested for drug abuse.  
  
The lack of a soul didn't bother me until after I beat that doaho for what seemed to be the nth time. Beating Sakuragi is usually an assertion of my skill, a chance to pour more scorn on him. Then I realized that I didn't care about it. I felt uneasy. That night, I recalled how I'd felt when we'd beaten Kainan. I had stood quietly on the side, as was my wont, while my team-mates celebrated. Everyone knew I wasn't the whoop-it-up type, but the recollection filled me with horror, because I hadn't felt delight, nor triumph in ending a 17 year reign. Their cheers had echoed in my hollow core.  
  
I had felt nothing.  
  
Bleakness arose in me with this revelation, an overwhelming sense of horror at what I'd done. I had no soul! Basketball had been a passion for me, a way of life. It had given me purpose. Everyday had been filled with promise of greater achievements, of an even more challenging match, the prospect of beating more opponents. But now… now that every single game I played was guaranteed victory, what was the point of all that striving? The joy of playing basketball had been my only escape from a world I hardly cared for, but now that was lost to me forever. Too late, I realized what a soul is for.  
  
I don't feel anything now, not terror or horror, or sadness. Nothing. It's almost absurd how I miss something I'd scorned and given away. The color of nothingness is black; all emotion is sucked into a vacuum. Life is merely to be lived till its conclusion, nothing means anything. When I die, I know that I will at least feel gratitude, even with where I'll be going. I will be released from the emptiness inside.  
  
I only wanted to be the best, now nothing matters.  
  
  
  
*when all of your wishes have been granted, many of your dreams will be destroyed* 


End file.
